zSherlock series 3 chapter 1
by capricorn5
Summary: This is a story I wrote about the third series of Sherlock. It has been playing on my mind for a while.


John walked up the stairs, a single grocery bag in hand, the cane on the other, helping him to stay steady. Mrs. Hudson was not at home, but that was normal the last couple of weeks. Not that they talked all that much, anyway. The connection was Sherlock, had always been Sherlock. And there he was again, creeping into his thoughts like a snake, silently and all of a sudden. The ache was almost unbearable, and tangible, he could almost grab it and shape it. Unfortunately he couldn't send it away.

He took a deep breath before reaching the last step, aware of the room he would find. It was always a struggle, to try and not see the skull, the chair, the books, the little bits that belonged to him. He should have been used to it by now. He should have moved on. But, in truth, do you ever move on after a close friend is dead? Do you ever forget? No. It just lingers there, hidden but ready to jump at the first opportunity.

The light got in through the window, reflecting the shadows of the buildings across the street. Weird, he had closed the curtains before he left. Maybe Mrs Hudson had opened them. She always said the house needed more light and more life. Yes, it did indeed need more life. But that wasn't something John could provide just by opening a curtain.

As he walked in and put the grocery bag on a small table by the entrance there she was, a young woman, standing next to the fireplace, running her fingers through the chunked wood. Hitting the fireplace with the cane was not a good idea, but he only realised that when Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, asking what the hell he was doing to her fireplace. Those were the bad days.

"Excuse me, can I help you? " John asked, unsure.

She turned around. Long, dark brown and slightly curled hair, brown eyes, wearing a black jacket, and a black scarf. Was wearing jeans, though, and that lighted up her image a bit.

"Oh, hi." she said back, with a short smile.

Suddenly John understood.

"Oh, you're here for the apartment? I didn't know they would send someone today. Mrs Hudson usually leaves me a message when someone comes to take a look at it. It's not very tidy up but I assure you it does look good when it's taken care of."

She flickered a smile again, taking a long look at his cane.

"No, I am not here for the apartment. Not this one, at least. I am taking the other one, 221C. It's available."

"Well, but this one is also for rent, the room upstairs is available and I am looking for a flat mate. " said John.

"But you already have a flat mate, Dr. Watson."

She knew his name, how did she know his name? Had Mrs. Hudson mentioned it to her? Probably.

"How do… " started John. But she turned her back and grabbed the skull, taking the pack of cigarettes from it. "It would be better if you didn't touch that."

"Oh, he won't mind."

John lowered his head and held the cane tightly. No, he wouldn't. Not anymore. And then it hit him.

"Why are you here all alone? Where is Mrs. Hudson?"

"She had to leave. A problem with her sister, she said. Of course she was just going to the grocery shop again. She's dating the owner from what I could see. And her sister lives too far away anyway. The look on her face when I gave her a grocery list…" she added, laughing.

"And she left you here, all alone. And why? I mean, if you don't want to rent the apartment..."

"I can't rent the apartment. It's kind of taken, isn't it, Dr. Watson? You do have a flat-mate, as far as I know, even if he is not here right now. I would have to move out eventually. Or _you_ would since the room upstairs used to be yours and that's the one you are offering right now."

"But I don't have a flat mate. Not anymore. And he certainly won't return. My flat-mate… He died. "

John swallowed. It was still hard to say it out loud. It made it more real.

"Well, I don't believe that's true. And you shouldn't believe it either. Not everything is what it looks like. I do know that under the circumstances it may seem like it is so, like he is indeed dead, but usually we have to go below the surface."

"What are you talking about?" John asked, unsure "And who are you? How do you know the room upstairs was my room?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she smiled again and spoke.

"You and everyone says Sherlock died. Still, I would like somebody to explain how the hell this pack of cigarettes ended up here, inside Bill, the skull. Did you hide it here, Dr. Watson?"

John took a minute to think. He did. He and Mrs. Hudson. He had given them to Sherlock eventually but Sherlock didn't need them anymore at the time, so John had put them back where they used to be, inside the skull.

"Yes, I did." He answered finally. "A long time ago."

"Then. Dr. Watson, you might have thought of checking it once in a while. It's almost empty." She pointed out, opening the package that held only three or four cigarettes. "He was doing so well, that idiot!" she paused for a while, looked around and continued "Then, everybody says he is dead, but listen to this."

The violin had been there forever, where he had left it. Still, she picked it up and started to play, like he did so many times.

"Do you hear it?" she asked as she finished playing, and waited for an answer.

"It sounds just fine to me." pointed out John.

"Exactly!" she nearly shouted, "It sounds just fine! This violin hasn't been played in months and still it is perfectly tuned. Quite odd, wouldn't you say?

"Sorry, are you trying to say someone played that violin?" john couldn't believe what he was hearing. That girl, whoever she was, was crazy.

"No, I am saying that Sherlock played this violin! That Sherlock has been keeping this violin tuned. "

John shook his head.

"Come on, you can't seriously think that, even if Sherlock wasn't dead, what as much I would like to believe it, is ridiculous, he would play the violin here. In this house. People might hear him."

"Oh, he would know when you and Mrs. Hudson weren't at home."

"Still, how risky would that be? What if we showed up, unexpected, what if we heard him play? Neither I nor Mrs. Hudson have strict schedules."

"Oh, Dr. Watson. He was dying to get caught! But he never was…" she sighed and turned to the bookshelf with a twist. "And then, there are the books!"

"What's wrong with the books? I put them in the shelf. They haven't been rearranged or…"

"Of course they have not! But this book here is yours, if I am not mistaken, isn't it?" she picked a book from the shelf. Yes, it was John's and she continued without waiting for an answer. "Still, you left it here, among his books! And why? Because he asked you for the book, what, a day before he died? Yes, probably, not more than two… He asked you for the book and he left a message in it for you. It should be quite a familiar thing; you once had a case with messages in books. But Sherlock forgot, like he always does, that people try to avoid what hurts them. So you just put the book among his things and left it there, not even minding to open it. Ah, but if you had, Dr. Watson, if you had!"

John was beginning to get upset. That was just a book. She was crazy. There was no message. Sherlock was dead.

"There is no message in that book. I really don't think you…"

"But there is a message, Dr. Watson, there is." she opened the book and the first sentence was underlined with a black marker. "The first sentence to this book. You think he asked for the book because he really wanted to read it? That it was a random thing? No. It's here, underlined. The first sentence of this specific book. "He is not dead"."

John reached out, and held the book. It was there indeed, underlined.

"And there's more, if you still don't believe me!" she continued, turning around, approaching Sherlock's chair. "This chair. I assume you've been sitting here most of the time now, right?"

"Right…" John said, unsure where that would go.

"So, there are two marks here, on the carpet. The first mark, the deepest one, is facing the TV. That's your mark. But then, there's this mark here. Not so deep, so I should say the chair is not facing that direction so often. Sherlock doesn't watch TV. But you do Dr. Watson. So Sherlock comes here, he sits for a few hours with a space of every two or three days, and you come home and sit to watch TV and change the chair again. And you probably think it is just Mrs. Hudson that's been rearranging the furniture." She ran her hands through her head, shaking it. "My God, he's been giving you so many hints and you don't even see it… He will be very disappointed… "

"Listen," John started, when she didn't say anything else, "I don't know who you are or why you are trying to imply what you are trying to imply with what you are saying, and I also don't know why those words on the book are underlined or how is the violin tuned but yes, obviously the chair was all Mrs. Hudson's… And maybe she started smoking too, Sherlock's dead affected her as well… I don't know. The thing is, it is already painful to think about Sherlock being dead without someone coming here and try to tell me otherwise. I don't want to think otherwise. Sherlock is dead. If I get a bit of hope it's… it's going to crash me again, okay? So, no matter how clever and apparently logical your deductions sound, if you are not interested in the apartment I would ask you to leave. Now."

"My dear Dr. Watson, I am very interested in the apartment. But like I said, it's already taken. Actually, you should ask Mrs. Hudson to stop finding you a flat mate, because it will be quite awkward to send the person away when Sherlock does come back."

John took a deep breath. He didn't want to be rude and lose it. He just wanted her to shut up and stop talking about it.

"Listen." He repeated "Sherlock will not come back. Sherlock is… is… dead." He said the words slowly, trying to get the message through.

She smiled.

"Oh now, is he? " and looked to the side, a smile playing in her lips.

John turned his head to the door, following her gaze.

"Hello, John."

He was thinner, if possible. Dressed a bit more casual, with his coat, the collar up, the scarf hanging from his neck and hands behind his back. There. Real. _Alive_.

And in that moment, before he fainted, John was sure he had finally lost his mind.


End file.
